


Offer me that deathless death

by onvavoir



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Feels, Dubious Consent, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Predicament Bondage, i don't know why i write so many wank fics they just happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:38:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7028932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onvavoir/pseuds/onvavoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost wholly inspired by <a href="http://kimeido.tumblr.com/post/104696647473/%E3%81%AA%E3%82%93%E3%81%8B%E3%83%90%E3%82%AD%E3%82%B9%E3%83%86%E3%81%A3%E3%81%A6%E3%83%88%E3%83%AC%E3%83%BC%E3%83%8B%E3%83%B3%E3%82%B0%E3%81%A8%E3%81%8B%E4%BB%BB%E5%8B%99%E5%BE%8C%E3%81%AE%E4%BA%92%E3%81%84%E3%81%AE%E6%B1%97%E3%81%AE%E3%81%AB%E3%81%8A%E3%81%84%E3%81%A8%E3%81%8B%E3%81%AB%E8%88%88%E5%A5%AE%E3%81%97%E3%81%A6%E3%81%9D%E3%81%86%E3%81%A0%E3%81%AA%E3%81%A3%E3%81%A6">this image</a> (which I now know is by <a href="http://kimeido.tumblr.com">kimeido</a>), although I'm glad to say there is plenty of stuff out there that fits the aesthetic. (See my <a href="https://happinessisntapotato.tumblr.com/tagged/steve%2Fbucky">Steve/Bucky tag</a> for details.)</p><p>All of this takes place in Steve's head, but I've tagged for dubious consent anyway, just in case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Offer me that deathless death

It hurts. Steve's body still hurts in too many places to count. Stab wounds and gunshot wounds, lacerations and bruised ribs all harmonise together in a tune he's come to recognise as Life After Defrosting. He woke up from a golden dream in the cold grey light of the real world.

Everything hurts more now. The world's been knocked askew, and he did some of the knocking, and he's angry and confused about nothing and everything at once. He's lost. Lost as verb, everything he loved stripped away from him in a mockery of death. Lost as adjective-- fallen, frozen, dead. Or at least he tried to be. He tried to sacrifice himself, he even tried to die a second time and still failed. It's the universe's cruel joke on him. The punchline is he and Bucky being resurrected, not whole but made monstrous by the experience. Bucky with his steel and titanium carapace, and Steve with the emptiness inside him that seems to speak with a cold hard cynical voice, like his own parody of little Jiminy Cricket saying _why bother_ and _don't you wish you were dead_.

And he does. He remembers dying-- the second time. The horror in Bucky's wide eyes, and he remembers thinking _finally, now it can end_ and then falling. Darkness and blessed relief. Regaining consciousness in a hospital with Sam keeping watch next to him. His first feeling, disappointment. He'd given himself over to it, not as Captain America leaping into the jaws of death but as Steve Rogers, lying down in them and begging for release.

At first he thought he dreamed Bucky dragging him out of the Potomac, leaving him to cough up water on the shore and limping away, shoulder hunched, dripping water. He's watched the snippets from surveillance cameras over and over again, hungry for the briefest glimpse. Blurry but unmistakably The Winter Soldier, walking away from him, shoulder dislocated, leaving deep boot prints in the river bank. They're probably washed away by now. The world moves on.

He reads through the archive of Hydra and SHIELD files, an unholy matrimony of everything he hated about the world before he died and everything he hates about it now. He reads the paper file that Natasha gave him, over and over, reads about the Asset, as if he's a weapon, as if he's a _thing_ , to be used and then put away until it's ready to be used again. He flays himself alive with a scourge cut and braided from those words, until he can't see for the tears. Then he pushes himself away from the desk and goes to bed.

He is put back together like a shattered vase. Bones knit together, wounds shrink into red lines and then into nothing, leaving not even scars to mark the places where Bucky touched him. Everything aches, always. He's so accustomed to it that it takes him a while to recognise a physical need. He resents it. He resents the frailty and humanity it reminds him of, the loneliness it underlines. He works himself with miserable disinterest and tries desperately not to think about before-- Peggy, young and bright in red lipstick and brown leather. Bucky, prelapsarian, movie star handsome with his rifle slung across his shoulder. Bucky picking off goons before they could so much as look at Steve, and he can't help but wonder if there was a shadow of this future on him even then. It's the curse of the past to forever be interpreted through the present. Or is it the other way around?

Sometimes he doesn't bother to finish. He goes to sleep hard and wakes up hard and _feels_ hard inside and out, a brittle hardness that always threatens to shatter but somehow never does. Instead the world just seems to chisel bits of him away.

He can't get drunk, although they've got some pretty strong stuff now, so he buys good scotch and sits at his kitchen table. He pours two fingers-- never any more, because that would be pathetic-- and then knocks it back. He likes the way it burns down his throat, almost warming him before the heat dissipates and leaves him cold again. He pours another, and another, his votive offering to Thanatos, and considers taking up smoking. Instead he leaves bottle and glass sitting on the table and shuffles towards bed.

A glance at the clock-- it's 3am. He'll wake at 5 like he always does. Go for a run, shower, start the whole goddamn thing over tomorrow. Tonight he'll climb into bed and jerk off with mechanical efficiency, and maybe he'll dream. 

It's the quietest noise that alerts him, too late, to the intruder. He wheels around, but he's that fraction of a second too slow, a blur of metal and black leather, and then he's on the floor with his hands behind his back. There's only one person in the world who could get the jump on him like that. He anticipates, but the killing blow doesn't come. There's nothing but silence and the weight of the body on top of him.

"Bucky?"

There's no answer. He strains to listen, tries to look over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his attacker, but the angle of wrist to elbow to shoulder sharpens, and he gasps against the floor. He can smell the scotch on his own breath, and maybe underneath that he can smell leather, cordite, metal polish.

Something snaps shut around his wrists. Not standard handcuffs-- he could snap the chain on a pair of police issue handcuffs without breaking a sweat. His wrists are held together with no give at all. No amount of struggling loosens them or gives him any sense that they've weakened. The way they feel around his wrists reminds him of the cuffs the Hydra thugs tried to use on him in the Triskelion elevator, the magnetic ones that he suspects were made especially for him. He still can't get into an elevator without thinking about that. He takes the stairs instead.

His shield is literally an arm's reach away, propped against the back of the sofa. In the brushed metal of its concave back, he can see a vague reflection, white and blue, and on top of him, a black shape. Black with a gleam of silver. Hands pat down his arms and his shoulders. He never carries weapons, just the shield, but he supposes better safe than sorry is the only reason the Winter Soldier is still alive. Down his sides, checking for anything in the waistband of his jeans, right hip and down around the ankles.

The hands move up again to pat down his left leg. One of them touches the inside of his thigh, not the metal one but flesh and blood, warm through denim. Steve sucks in a breath as fingertips touch the hard-on in his jeans. The hand freezes. The body on top of him goes still. For a moment the only sound is Steve's breathing and the ticking of a clock in the next room. His rests one facet of his burning face on the coolness of the floor. His heart pounds in his ears.

The hand, his (Bucky--the Asset--Winter Soldier) right, curves around his thigh again, around his cock, and ever so slightly squeezes. Steve bites his lip and tries not to make a sound. The hand moves with surprising gentleness, slowly, meditatively. Considering its options. Steve closes his eyes. The metal arm reaches beneath him to pull at his fly and pops the button off his jeans. It hits the floor with a _plink_ and rolls away.

The Winter Soldier ( _Bucky?_ he hears himself ask, over and over again) shoves his pants down to free his dick. The right hand-- the human hand-- closes around it without preface and strokes. Steve's body bucks in surprise. The Soldier pulls his hips back to steady him, and he can feel it against his ass, Bucky is _hard_. Steve's breath catches in his throat.

He bites his lip. There's a moment of hesitation, and then those fingers close around his cock and stroke again. It's slow, sadistic in its gentleness when all Steve wants is to frantically roll his hips. He whimpers into the floorboards and pulls-- fruitlessly-- at the manacles around his wrists. Bucky's hand strokes his cock, implacable, moving no faster and no slower, and he can _feel_ the hard-on against his ass. The Soldier works him with ruthless skill, utterly silent, as if this were a mission and _la petite mort_ were the real thing.

Steve's eyelashes flutter. He can see his breath fogging the cooler surface of the floor. He can feel the heat of the body holding him, the hand jerking him off with an intensity that Steve hasn't managed himself in a long time. His fingernails dig into his palms. He drags in a ragged breath and groans as the sensation picks up and then rolls over him. He comes with a gasp, all over the floor and probably his pants. He lies there for a moment, stunned.

The Soldier disappears. For an awful moment Steve is sure that he's bolted, leaving him cuffed and desperate on the floor. But no, there he is again, behind and over Steve, settling back down with his knees on either side of Steve's body. He shoves Steve's pants down off his hips and leaves them bunched around his knees. The coolness of the air prickles his bare skin.

The metal hand settles on his hip, unforgiving fingers splayed. Something wet and cool brushes across his ass, and a finger penetrates him. He presses his lips together and breathes through his nose. His body trembles-- or is that Bucky?-- and Steve whines into the floor as Bucky works him open with maddening patience. He can't help but push back into it, his breath hitching and his heart hammering in his chest. One finger becomes two, spreading his ass open, sending shockwaves up his body until he can't think about anything else except how good it is. How much he wants it-- _this is definitely Bucky-_ \- and how mortified he is about that.

There's the quick sound of a zipper as the Winter Soldier undoes his pants, and the terrible hope that Steve's been simultaneously nursing and restraining breaks loose. A third slick finger presses into him, up to the last knuckle, and Steve can't be sure if he's whispering yes or only just thinking it. Not that it matters. Nothing matters, really. Nothing else exists but the heat of Bucky's body against him and the wild burst of adrenaline he gets as the head of Bucky's cock settles against his ass. His fingertips dig into Steve's hips as Bucky pulls them back and then pushes into him an inch at a time. 

"Ohhhhh god," Steve blurts.

It's slow, too slow, and he wants to push back into it hard, but the hands on his hips keep him still, make him take it incrementally, until Bucky's hips come to rest against his ass. Bucky's cock is glorious, it stretches and aches, and Steve whimpers at the weight in him. Is this why he came here? To give Steve what he really needed?

"Please," he pleads, barely more than a whisper. "Bucky, please..."

The body halts. He pulls back, just a little, and then thrusts in again, hard this time, and Steve comes undone.

"Jesus, fuck-- Bucky-- please, oh god, oh god, please do it, please..."

Even the Winter Soldier can only have so much self-control. Steve's ran out a while ago. His knees scrabble on the hardwood floor trying to get some kind of leverage, and then the metal hand is on the small of his back, pushing him down flat onto the floor. Steve moans and arches his back to keep his ass as close to Bucky as possible. The hands resettle on his hips, and then Bucky lets loose. He fucks Steve hard and fast, and Steve's breath leaves him in a gust. For a moment he can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except to press his face into the floor and resist the urge to scream.

Steve manages to get some air into his lungs, breath dragging just like Bucky's cock drags out of his ass before he thrusts it back in. He _teases_. Hepulls out until Steve is sure he's going to stop, then drags Steve's hips back roughly and fucks him hard, hips slapping. Every impact drives Steve's need upward and over, until he can't be quiet anymore.

"Bucky... please... oh god, Bucky please, I..."

The words dissolve into incoherent moaning as the Soldier settles down on top of him, deep inside, fucking him roughly and sending sparks up his nerves. Steve's dick is up again, caught between his body and the hardwood, and if his hands weren't bound he'd be reaching for it, but there's nothing he can do, nothing but lie there and take it as this body, as Bucky-- as the _Winter Soldier_ \-- fucks him hard into the floor.

He whines in the back of his throat, close to coming a second time but unable to get any closer, not while Bucky has him pinned, inside him as deep as he can get. Steve bucks, throws his weight as much as he can. The metal hand presses between his shoulder blades and holds him down. Steve can hear him breathing now, more and more ragged with each moment. He wants to beg more, but all he can get out of his mouth is whimpers and whines, nonverbal pleas for _more_ and _harder_ and _yes_. Bucky's cock throbs inside him, and this time he does scream, the body on top of him locks up, the Winter Soldier gasps, and then he comes inside Steve with no more noise than an exhaled breath. 

The Soldier slumps forward and catches himself with his right hand, holds himself there for a moment. His breath is hot on the back of Steve's neck. An aftershock rolls through him, and Steve moans as the movement pushes Bucky's cock into him just a little. He tries to look over his shoulder, to get an idea of what happens next. His cock is sticky against his stomach, and although he's already come once he's desperate to do so again-- and again, and again, until Bucky's done with him. The Winter Soldier pulls out of him with agonising tenderness, leaves him aching and empty. 

He wants to speak, he wants to plead and beg-- _stay with me, just stay with me Bucky, please don't go_ \-- but his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. Steve can hear him zipping up. For a moment he's absolutely certain that Bucky will leave him like this, pants down, wrists in shackles-- _please I'll do whatever you want, anything, just stay with me_ \-- and then the cuffs snap open. The Soldier vanishes, like a ghost, and when Steve frees himself and turns over, he's alone again.

Steve's hips lift off the bed a little into the hot slick friction of his hand. He's grateful-- _grateful_ \-- to feel something besides emptiness, even if it's shame and embarrassment at the depths of his own depravity. If anything, it only seems to intensify it all. His head jerks back, and he gasps-- _Bucky_ \-- as he comes all over his hand and stomach.


End file.
